Matchmaking Kidnapper
by Green Queen of Clubs
Summary: What happens when sexual tension is making Sherlock even more insufferable than usual. Lestrade decide to solve the matter and calls for Mycroft's help. Sherlock/John Mycroft/Lestrade. Don't like, don't read. T is for very very mild sexual allusions.


He is going to be the death of me!

Geoff Lestrade shouted, to nobody in particular, entering his flat. He dumped his bag on the floor, nearly throwing his coat on the coach. Then he stood in the middle of the living room, pondering whether he should take some Advil and go strait to bed, or if he should eat first. Finally, his growling stomach took over and he dragged his feet in the kitchen. He found some minute noodles in a forgotten cupboard. Once they were started he leant against the counter, rubbing his hands against his face, trying to get rid of the tiredness he felt.

His team has been working on a murderer/rapper case for about two months, until he worked up the nerves to ask for Sherlock's help. The tall man, of course, came at once. The only problem, because with him around, it was bound to have some problem, Sherlock was in one of the worst mood Lestrade have ever seen. He flapped around, grumbling about curtains and yellow paint. In between case related babblings, Lestrade managed to understand that John was working overtime because of the especially harsh flu season, and therefore was nearly never at the flat, and certainly not able to assist Sherlock for the time being. Apparently, Sherlock had become a bit too accustomed to Watson's presence to go back to talking with his skull. Anyway, since the doctor wasn't there to keep Sherlock nearly tolerable, nearly human, the detective was being as insufferable as he was before. Lestrade wasn't sure if he wasn't worst.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock nearly solved the case, according to him, in the meanwhile fedding up every member of the team. Lestrade wondered, not for the first time, if all the cases the consulting detective solved were worth the trouble Sherlock brought to him and the Yard. And not for the first time, he told himself justice should prevail. Even if it meant dealing with Anderson and Donovan's resentment. Lestrade more than anyone else knew it was jealousy anyway. He sighed one last time, the gulped down his "supper", and heavily made his way to his bed.

His last conscious thought before drifting away, was that he hoped Sherlock didn't have any sibling. The planet couldn't survive to two Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes was still sitting in his office by the time the DI went to bed. It had been a long day, but inhuman tolerance to the lack of sleep seemed to be a Holmesian characteristic. All in all, it was the third day in a row without him seeing a bed, and Mycroft was beginning to feel a bit drowsy. The Egyptian embassy had kept him occupied all day, asking for support for a governmental army program they wanted to create, but didn't have money or expertise. He sighed. It shouldn't have been hard, but both sides were _bloody _stubborn. When he decided everybody had had enough for the day, he was starting a headache. Slowly, he closed the page where he was typing his report of the Egyptian case.

Just before leaving, as he was doing every night, he went to check what Sherlock had been up to during the day. Usually, it took him no more than five minutes, just making sure his brother wasn't in to much trouble and since most of days Sherlock was just lying on the coach, and it really wasn't much job. However, lately, with the nearly absence of John Watson, Sherlock was royally piss of, which usually meant he would get kidnapped and/or hurt by some low class criminal, or he would get himself on drug again. Either way was totally unacceptable.

So when he saw Sherlock was on a case, he paid far more attention then he should have, then he would usually have. This was exactly the kind of criminal with which Sherlock would get in trouble. He always underestimated rapper, for some reason. He had always been helpless when he came to anything even remotely sexual. This was probably the reason why he couldn't understand his main problem with John working extra hours was sexual tension. How Mycroft wished these two would just get together. It would solve pretty much everything.

But, since that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, Mycroft had to watch over the case. For the time being, he was most intrigued by this man, _DI Lestrade._ The man seemed to be one of the four people in the world who had a bit of authority on Sherlock. There was Mummy, himself and, of course, John Watson. Now, him and Mummy were family members, John was the flat mate/best friend/soon to be lover. It was only norm... natural (normal never could describe anything related to Sherlock), that they should have some influence over the detective. Lestrade, on the other hand, wasn't related to Sherlock in any way that should get him any respect from his brother. It wasn't the fact he was a police officer, neither of the Holmes brother ever had any problem in ignoring people's titles, or the regard they are expected to give it. No, for some reason Sherlock listened, to some extent, of course, to the DI. Mycroft wanted to know why. Lestrade seemed to care for his brother, and this added to the fact he had a bit of influence over Sherlock would make him a valuable ally for Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at his computer screen, where was displayed a picture of Lestrade, a frown on his face, looking at a swirl a coat that could only be Sherlock. The DI was most definitely exasperated, but there was something else, something hidden, something very different from the usual reaction Sherlock caused. More positive. Less "What a bloody freak, he shouldn't be allowed to go around freely" kind of look. Mycroft couldn't identify it at the moment, but he was determined to. He sighed. The picture couldn't help him more. He would have to watch the man more closely. Probably meet him at some point. When Sherlock's mood would be over though. When he was piss off, his brother seemed even more sensitive for things that would bug him even more. His brother spying tended to fit into that category, for some reason.

Mycroft sighed once more and closed his computer. If he wanted to work properly tomorrow, he had to sleep a bit that night. A few hours, before going back to the Egyptian problem. He left his office, nodding to the night secretary and took his car to his flat.

He entered his flat swiftly. It was spacious, modern and luxurious. Its view was gorgeous. Mycroft himself had little use of it. He basically just slept there, when he was in London. But he used it to meet foreign dignitaries who didn't want to be acknowledged by the papers, and a man of his position ought to show off his money a bit.

His bedroom, which was never shown to anyone, was decorated in a totally different way then the rest of the flat. It was more ancient. The walls were covered in wood, with paintings of old masters, originals, of course. The bed was large, and would not have looked weird with a four poster. The cover was of a dark and deep red, with few golden embroideries on the hems. The sheets were also dark red. A red velvet reading chair was posted near the windows. The whole gave an impression of a middle age bedroom, and felt a bit out of space, but Mycroft wouldn't change it for the world. It was HIS rooms, and no one had ever seen them, except the woman who had helped him with the decoration. The stylist who designed the rest of the flat was more than offended when Mycroft refused him the right to draw the bedroom, but he didn't care.

He slid trough the covers and relieved in the feeling of the rich fabric. He fell asleep quickly.

Days passed. After a week, John Watson was finally able to spend less then 12 hours strait at the clinic. This "surprisingly" corresponded with a lightened mood on Sherlock's part. Also, Mycroft was finally able to find a compromise with the Egyptian government. It was otherwise a slow season at work, the holiday season was approaching, and everyone seemed to take a break. It gave Mycroft the leisure to work on another type of problem. The curious case of Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade. In the past week, Sherlock spent a lot of time on the case, which finally was more intricate than Sherlock thought, and managed to solve it without being hurt/kidnapped/rapped/murdered or sent to the hospital. Lestrade kept a close eye on him, never accepting to be left without any sound of Sherlock for more then 6 hours in a row. Mycroft was really thankful for that, and he felt it would be good things to meet the man at last. If nothing else, they will be able to share some tricks on _Sherlock handling. _

Mycroft called his secretary, called Jessica for the day. His black car was waiting for him in the parking lot. He told his chauffeur to go to Scotland Yard. Business was slow for the police as well, and Mycroft knew Lestrade had nothing more interesting, or useful, to do than to meet him. He watched the city flash by. He loved city. He loved the anonymity it gave him. He loved the greatness, the strenght of the sky-scrapers. He loved the intrigues millions of human beings created.

He finally arrived at the Yard. He had acquired the keys of the building a few years back, by helping the previous head of the police. He so entered without any difficulty. During the last week, he had worked now and then on learning all that was useful to know about the DI who had caught his attention, so he located the good office without any problem. On his way, he recognized some persons he had seen working with Lestrade on cases. Most of them looked at him defiantly. Apparently, the DI didn't have unknown visit very often. One of them, Sergeant Donovan, if his memory was right, even made a move to stop and question him, but one Look made her change her mind. Mycroft smirked. He wasn't a power freak, nor a cruel man, but he liked to be able to put respect in people by a simple look. Especially police officers. They had the bad, and annoying, tendencies to think themselves above everyone else.

The door of Lestrade's office was open, but Mycroft knocked anyway. He wanted to start this discussion right, and he never liked, unlike Sherlock, to barge into place. There was no subtlety in it, no finesse. It wasn't polite. And it was putting people off, most of the time. So Mycroft knocked.

Lestrade raised his eyes from the paperwork he was filling, probably a report of the case Sherlock just finished. He took one long look at Mycroft's face, and then looked him up and down. Not in a "oh my god he is beautiful" way, but more "Am I suppose to know this man?". Then he went back at Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft internally approved. He liked people who were able to look you in the eyes without it being an insult or a dare, but just a way to show respect. Than the detective talked for the first time, his tone cautious, open and a little bit defiant (he was a policeman after all):

-Can I help you sir?

- I was hoping, for a little talk, Detective Inspector, if I'm not interrupting anything essential.

He knew he wasn't, and made sure the DI understood it. He also made clear the _"little talk" _wasn't an option either. Lestrade was perfectly able to recognize power when he saw it, and gestured the man to take a seat. Mycroft did so, and started to talk, fiddling a bit with his umbrella handle.

-It came to my attention you were working more and more often with the consulting detective named _Sherlock Holmes. _

He threw Lestrade a glance at the end of the statement. The man frowned a bit, but didn't say anything.

-I was merely wondering what kind of... connection you had with him?

Lestrade definitely frowned at that, and was now openly defiant. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.

-He helps me with certain case my team has difficulty with. Who are you?

-I wasn't talking about a professional connection, detective, but on a personal level. And I'm merely an interested party.

-What? I have no personal connection with Sherlock! I only see him on cases! And honestly, I'm pretty sure he is dating his flat mate. Anyway, why do you care? I don't think that's any of you're business.

-Please, detective, there are more ways to by personally connected to someone than by being lovers. I just meant you seemed to care about him, and I wanted to know why. People in general don't, as you must know. Anyway, I care because a worry about him and his well-being. And I can assure you, Sherlock and John a sadly not dating yet.

-I care about him because he helps me. I don't like when any member of my team gets hurt. And if you are worried about him, go talk to his mother, or to John. They'll be able to help you far more efficiently than me... How do you know they're not dating?

-So he's just another member of you're team? Do they know? They don't seem to appreciate him very much... And I speak to his mother frequently. John was never really cooperative with me. He always takes Sherlock's side. I can't blame him though. I don't remember the last time Sherlock had someone who would always back him. In fact, I think it's a first...

Mycroft trailed off, twirling his umbrella. He was watching the DI intently. The latter was on the edge off his chair, his eyes trying to figure Mycroft out. Who knew it was useless. The man would never guess anything about him. However he also knew if he wanted Lestrade's trust, he would have to give him some clues about himself. The detective spoke, slowly, detaching each word, making clear he wanted an answer this time. A straight, clear, truthful answer.

-Who. Are. You?

Mycroft smiled his closed-lips smile and extended his hand to Lestrade across the desk.

-Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you.

Mycroft wished he had brought a camera. The look on Lestrade's face was absolutely priceless. He apparently had been expecting everything save this. He shook the offered hand awkwardly, but seemed a bit more relaxed. Mycroft took this as an encouragement to continue.

-I am aware my brother is a hard man to work with, that he can be a pest of the worst kind some times. But I also know you care for him, and are trying to keep him out of trouble, as much as humanly possible. I figured you might appreciate some help. After all, we may be more efficient if we work together instead of separately. Of course, it's entirely up to you. A lot of people seemed to think being acquainted with only one Holmes was more than enough.

Lestrade suddenly remembered his thought he had a bit over a week ago. But the man sitting across him intrigued him. He had power, you could feel it in the way he acted, and in the fact he could walk into Scotland Yard without any problem. But Lestrade had never seen his face, and he had the nagging feeling not a lot of people ever had. All in all, he seemed like a man one could use to have on his side. Especially man he had to deal with Sherlock. So he nodded.

-I'm more than happy to accept any help I can get.

Mycroft smiled, a bit more genuinely this time. He nodded and gave Lestrade his card. He then rose from the chair.

-Call me whenever you need my assistance. I'll be happy to oblige.

He began to walk to the door, when Lestrade called for him

-Mister Holmes-

-Mycroft, please.

-Mycroft, could you please try to tell him a need his statement on the case? I tried to call and text him, but he doesn't answer. I think he's ignoring me.

Mycroft smiled once more.

-Of course, I'll pass the message.

He walked back to his car, sending a smirk to Donovan who was passing by. Once in the car, he took his cell out to text to Sherlock. He preferred to phone, but knew Sherlock wouldn't answer.

_Lestrade says he wants you to go and make you're statement._

He waited for the reply, smirking in anticipation.

_Since when are you teaming up with Lestrade!_

Mycroft chuckled wickedly and put his cell phone away. The next weeks were going to be interesting.

Weeks passed. Mycroft and Lestrade were seeing each other now and then, usually at least once a week. They discussed of Lestrade's work, who was still trying to work what was Mycroft's work, of Sherlock and his latest eccentricity, and of whatever they wanted to talk about at the time. The both of them were getting along better then they ever though they could.

Mycroft had just gotten home, one late evening, when his cell phone rang. He answered eagerly, making his way through the flat. He knew exactly who was calling, it was Lestrade's ringtone.

-Geoff, what can I do for you tonight?

He spoke in a calm and distinguish manner, hiding the great pleasure he got from the call. Lately, he found himself enjoying the detective more and more. A bit too much. But, surprisingly, he couldn't get himself to care. He usually kept himself away from everyone that wasn't blood related to him. But Geoff was different. Mycroft didn't know why, but he was different.

-Good evening, Mycroft. How are you?

Lestrade sounded tired and weary. Mycroft learned to identify this tone has "I'm going to hit Sherlock".

-I'm doing very well. What has he done now?

Lestrade was used to the directness of Mycroft. He knew Mycroft had understood right away how he was and why he was calling.

-He is driving everyone insane... Mycroft, they have to get together. I don't know how much longer we will be able to endure the sexual tension. If they don't shag, I shoot them.

Mycroft chuckled softly. Trough the weeks they talked often about how they could wait for Watson and Sherlock to finally see what was so evident to everyone else. Apparently, Lestrade had reached his breaking point. And if he was, half of Scotland Yard's staff must be on the brink of burn out.

-What do you suggest?

-You are going to help me get them together.

Mycroft chuckled again a bit at that. Lestrade was the first man in a long time that dared to order him around. Mycroft found it refreshing.

-Should I take that you have a plan?

-Yes, and I need your help.

-What do you say of us meeting tomorrow, to discuss it?

-Sure. Twelve o'clock, at the cafe near the Yard?

-It's settle then. See you tomorrow.

-Good night, Mycroft.

-Good night Geoff.

Mycroft hung up. He took a couple breaths. He could believe how his heartbeat had increased when Geoff had proposed the cafe. When he had proposed to see him tomorrow, he was thinking about dropping at the Yard. Certainly not about a dat- a diner. It wasn't a date. Geoff probably wanted to skip Donovan's inquiries. That's all. There's nothing more to it. He closed his eyes and sighed. He couldn't believe that was happening. He was falling for Geoff Lestrade. He shook his head. He wouldn't do anything about it unless he was sure Geoff felt the same. He was pretty sure the detective was gay, or at least bisexual. Mycroft himself wasn't one to fall for a sex, but for a person.

He went to his bedroom. He stood in the door way. For the first time, he felt as though there was something missing. Something no designer could get. It missed Geoff Lestrade.

His bed felt cold that night.

Geoff woke up with a start, the following morning. He lied in his bed, trying to remember why he was so excited. Then he remembered. He was going on a dat- to dine with Mycroft. He couldn't believe his own boldness, last night, when he proposed the _appointment. _He did call in the regard of discussing Sherlock's problem. But he got off track when Mycroft suggested they met, well, today.

Lately, he was thinking of the older Holmes brother more then it was decent. He couldn't deny. He wasn't even trying. He liked Mycroft, a lot. The only problem was, he was nearly convinced the man was asexual. Lestrade has never seen him look at any one. So he wasn't hoping too much. He would take anything Mycroft would give him. Which, for the moment, was nothing. He smiled. It didn't matter. He was seeing Mycroft today. He may even solve his problem with Sherlock. It was going to be a good day.

He got dressed slowly. He was particularly self-conscious. He wanted to dress nice, for Mycroft, but not too much, because he didn't want to be different for his employees. Especially Donovan.

He was distracted at work. Luckily, he only had paperwork, which didn't need his total and focused attention. He watch the minutes tick by, anxious for noon to come.

At ten to twelve, he made his way to the cafe. He really didn't want to be late. He wanted to spend every minute he could with Mycroft. He knew he sounded like a schoolgirl, but he didn't care. It wasn't like someone was reading what he thought, after all.

Mycroft arrived at twelve o'clock sharp. He looked around, and grinned a bit when he saw the detective. He walked slowly, in Lestrade's mind, almost sensually. His grin broadened when he sat down.

-Good morning, Geoff.

-Hello, Mycroft.

They both smiled, enjoying each other's presence, without daring to say so. Mycroft cleared his throat.

-So, what's the plan?

-You must have noticed how much Sherlock is protective of John since the Pool incident.

-I must admit it's hard to miss.

-I think our best shot is to play on that. You have plenty employees Sherlock and John never met?

-A lot more then they have met.

-Enough to mimic a kidnapping?

-Absolutely.

-How long do you think we have to keep John away?

-Three days. Maximum. If he his asleep when we take John.

Lestrade chuckled.

-When do you think you can get the things ready?

-Give me two days.

There was a silence. They looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Lestrade opened his mouth, but at the exact moment, Mycroft's phone rang. He gave the detective a pained look and answered. He began to talk in french.

-Bonjour mon cher, comment allez-vous?... Très bien merci. Que puis-je faire pour vous?... Attendez, je suis désolé, je ne suis pas au bureau, je vous rappelle dans 15 minutes. À tout de suite.

[Hello sir, how are you? ... Very well, thank you. How can I be of any help? ... Give me a moment, I'm sorry, I'm not at the office, I will call you back in 15 minutes. ]

Mycroft turned himself toward Lestrade, with one of the sorriest expression the detective had ever seen.

-I'm sorry Geoff. I really have to go.

Lestrade ignored the painful lurch of his stomach, and plastered a smile on his face.

-Don't worry, Mycroft. I understand. Just call me when everything is ready.

Mycroft nodded, got up, muttered a good bye and left swiftly. Lestrade stayed alone at his table, feeling a bit empty. Well, at least, they had agreed on a plan for Sherlock and John.

Both men's sleep were thin that night, each one revisiting the encounter over and over again, trying to discover an hidden message somewhere, something they had miss on the spur of the moment that could convince them to make a move. If they only could have seen each other's dream that night, every thing would have been settled...

Two days later, everything was settled. Geoff and Mycroft had spoken over phone, to make sure they knew what they had to do. John always did his grocery shopping every four or five days, because if there was too much food, Sherlock would throw it away to make space for some body part. It had been four days, so John would go to the supermarket the day after. Mycroft's team would kidnap John on the way. Mycroft knew his brother enough not to let any incriminating clue on the scene that would lead Sherlock on their track before the time they chose. Mycroft would then give leads carefully, because Sherlock had to find John, wouldn't work as well if it was someone else. He would also imply that John had been hurt. It would drive Sherlock crazy. Which was to point. Sherlock wouldn't let his sociopath mask fall otherwise.

Lestrade's job was that if Sherlock called the police for help, which was highly unlikely but possible, to slow the investigation as much as possible. And to endure Sherlock's wrath. Neither were funny task, but it was his idea after all.

Everything went smoothly. They caught John easily. He struggled a little, but they were six against one. The doctor was now in a "cell", in a corner of the Holmes mansion. Because yes, even though both brothers lived in flat in London, they had access to a magnificent propriety about two hours from the capital. Lestrade was flabbergasted. He was presently in one the many living rooms of the place and was very, very, uncomfortable. Whether it was because all the furniture looked so old and refined he was afraid to breathe to hard next to it, or because he was seeing Mycroft for the first time since their cafe encounter, the DI couldn't tell. Probably a mix.

Mycroft was strangely silent this night. He was admiring how the moonlight seemed to erase the wrinkles of Geoff, making him look ageless and infinitely wise. For the first time, Mycroft felt the urge to touch the detective, to kiss him. Three days, he told himself. As soon as John and Sherlock were together, he would make his move. He couldn't wait anymore. He needed to know.

Lestrade went back to London. Mycroft stayed at the mansion to keep an eye on John, while Lestrade stayed close to Sherlock, in case the consulting detective did something stupid. He would meet Mycroft on the last night, to see the conclusion of their plan. He didn't know where yet, Mycroft would decide at the last minute, it was safer with Sherlock.

The day after passed slowly. He almost prayed for a murder that would distract him from the clock on the wall. Yes, he knew he sounded like Sherlock, but he really wanted to see Mycroft again. He had decided, as soon as the plan was over he was making his move. He couldn't bear not knowing where he stood anymore. Curious how one evening could change it all. Yesterday morning he was prepared to wait until the end of the world, and now he was nearly ready to pounce. Last night, in the moonlight, still as he was, Mycroft looked like a fallen angel. Powerful and beautiful, but totally confused when it came to simple human things. Lestrade wanted to teach him, to touch him, to show him how great being human could be, if one only let himself feel.

Finally, the last evening had come. Lestrade had come to join Mycroft at a little house, just outside London. It was a safe house, registered under the name of Richard Hewett, who Sherlock thought to be the kidnapper. Technically, the man didn't exist, but the only way Sherlock could have known that was by Mycroft or by the police. Mycroft was presently "trying his hardest to help and find John". And Sherlock hadn't called for the police's help yet. It had been only three days after all, even if Sherlock acted like it had been month. He was desesperate, roaming around the city, a murderous glint in his eyes. But he wouldn't call the police. He knew if he called for just three days, people would laugh and tell him John was only fed up of him and went away for a while. Sherlock really didn't need that. Si he kept away, and worked on his own. He found every clue Mycroft left for him, and made the right conclusions, until he reached the person of Richard Hewett. He was now on his way. Mycroft was proud of how well his team put off everything. John was presently tied to a chair with tape on his mouth, waiting for Sherlock to arrive. He was in perfect health, until right he had been in a locked bedroom, with a telly, and hearty meals three times a day, which was more than what he usually got when dealing with Sherlock. All in all, he was a bit bewildered as to who would kidnap him and treat him so well. Lestrade strongly believe it wouldn't take more than one or two days for Sherlock to understand what really happened, when he found John. If he really had time to think about it. Both Mycroft and Lestrade hopped he wouldn't.

Mycroft and Lestrade were now in another living room, in a different part of the mansion, with several tellys linked to the cameras in John's living room. For the moment, nothing happened, so they were mostly looking at each other, sometimes trying, and failing, to start an intelligent conversation. And they stared at the other, trying to remember everything they could, since they both thought if the other wasn't interested, it might be the last time they saw him.

Suddenly, an alarm rang. A cab stopped in front of the house and Sherlock got out. In the darkness, he looked a lethal panther, ready to strike at anybody who stood in his way, at anybody who had hurt John. He walking slowly in the alleyway, his eyes darting everywhere, trying to see everything at once. He reached the door and picked the lock. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. He didn't know Sherlock could pick lock, and he really wasn't sure he liked this piece of information. Sherlock got in the house and prowled in the hall until he reached the living room doorway. Once he saw John, all his carefulness was forgotten. He darted toward the man, quickly stripping his links, once John's hand were free, the smaller man ripped the piece of tape on his mouth. Sherlock didn't notice John wasn't hurt. He didn't notice it was weird there was no one to watch the "hostage". He didn't notice anything but the fact was there, alive. Sherlock snatched the front of John's jumper and pull him to him. Sherlock kissed John with everything he had. Once the doctor recovered from the shock, he returned the favor with equal fervor. Mycroft and Lestrade smiled. The plan worked.

The younger men broke apart and Sherlock dragged John out of the house and in the cab that waited for them. Apparently they were going to finish it at home. Which was more then fine with Mycroft and Lestrade.

After the actions, Mycroft dismissed his team. They packed up swiftly and left about 15 minutes later than John and Sherlock, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade alone. The two men stayed silent, their resolution from earlier shaking now that is was the time to act on it. Lestrade opened and shut his mouth a couple of time before Mycroft spoke.

-I think we should celebrate our victory. I have this old bottle of Shiraz at home, it has been waiting on it's shelf for far too long. We should go and put it out of his misery.

For the first time Lestrade had known Mycroft, the powerful man was hesitant. So the DI wasted no time answering.

-It would be lovely!

Mycroft called for his car and they were off. The ride was silence and tense. They both were trying to decide which strategy would be the best. Once they arrived at the building, Lestrade smirked. Of course Mycroft would live in one a the most expensive sky scraper in London. He was a bit... disappointed about the flat though. Sure it was modern and magnificent and open, and probably Fen Shui, for all he knew. But Mycroft seemed to belong much more in the rich and ancient halls of the Holmes Mansion than in the artificial design of the flat. Mycroft didn't notice the other man surprise. He didn't remember the last time he had been so nervous. What was going to happen? He wasn't a beginner in any way, but he had no idea how to start this particular step. He never had. He always waited for things to happen. He couldn't wait now, he couldn't bear it. He reached for the wine bottle, and then turned toward the DI.

-Do you think this would fit the occasion?

The DI briefly looked at the wine, and then turned his gaze toward the man. And for a brief second, he saw it. The hesitation, the nervousness, the longing. That was all the encouragement he needed. He leaped forward, pushing the bottle aside and kissed Mycroft. The other tensed automatically, and Lestrade waited to be rejected. But it never came. Mycroft, having recovered for the shock, placed the wine on the counter and took hold of Geoff's hips, drawing him even closer.

Eventually, when they broke apart to breath, Geoff smiled a bit and whispered:

-I think _this _most definitely fits the occasion.

They didn't go further that night. They only kissed and look. But when, a couple of weeks later, Geoff Lestrade got to see Mycroft naked, stretched under him, wriggling in his heavy covers, he knew had had found where he belonged. Beside the incredible Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
